


never my intention

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-15
Updated: 2009-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series. Two days after the world didn't end, Sam and Dean did—not with a bang, but with a whimper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never my intention

The first two days afterwards, they didn't speak more than a handful of words to each other—just put the pedal to the metal. From Kansas they headed north, then west, no reason to it except wanting to get as far away from ground zero as they could as fast as they could. Dean drove. Like always, Dean drove, and Sam curled himself into the passenger seat, the familiar hunch to his shoulders etched into Dean's peripheral vision by five years of overexposure.

He was pretty sure Sam knew they were aiming for Bobby's when Dean left the interstate in Wyoming and started heading back east on the state highway. He half-expected an argument, or at least some kind of protest; when Sam didn't say anything, Dean probably should have taken it as a bad sign. Truth was, he was too damned tired to care what Sam thought.

When Dean woke up in the cool, misty dawn of the third day after what should have been the end of the world, he was alone; Sam was gone, and what he felt first and foremost—grief and hurt around the rough edges of it but not so much he couldn't carry—was a light, spreading well of relief. Another circumstance, any other time in his life, he would've been pissed, would've had to fight the bone-deep edginess he always felt when Sam was off his radar, but this time all he could think was, it's over. It's really over. The weight that came off his shoulders made him dizzy, made him want to lie back down on the bench seat and let the sun come up over him and cry like a fucking baby for a while, because who was left to see him? Castiel and his angel buddies were gone, for good as far as Dean knew. There wasn't a soul around for miles. If he wanted to lie there for a while and bawl his eyes out, he'd earned it.

In the end, the tears wouldn't come, but the relief stayed with him, washing over him in slow waves, and he lay on the cool leather, eyes closed, and felt about a million years old, so tired he wasn't sure if he'd ever move again.

The sun came up in its inevitable way to the intermittent chirp and whirr of birds. Dean might have slept a while; it was high in the sky by the time he sat up and looked around. He thought he was some nowhere in Nebraska, nothing around save trees and low green hills almost too subtle to count stretching to the horizon.

Sam was still gone.

So.

A hundred miles or so further east, the needle rested on empty. The irony didn't escape Dean, but when he was sure she would stall out on him any minute, he spotted a turnoff up ahead. No more than a dirt road, but it looked like a farm road—and a farm might mean gasoline, if he was lucky.

Sad to say, his days of angels watching out for him were over. He made it halfway up the drive before she coughed to a stall. A quick recon of the farmhouse turned up nothing but a few chickens and a dog rope tied to a post, chewed through; the barn looked abandoned, too, the tractor already bled dry and all the gas cans gone. Two horses grazed in a field behind it, seemingly unconcerned about the absence of their owners.

Dean pulled out his cell; as expected, he got no joy. Only a matter of time before they got things working again and he could call Bobby for help, but for the time being, he was on his own.

He went back to the car and cracked open the can of baked beans he'd found in the pantry, ate them cold with a spoon, leaning against the cooling hood. Thus fortified, he faced the inevitable and pushed the car slowly up to the barn, maneuvering her inside. He didn't like leaving her, but it wasn't like he had a choice, and he supposed she'd be as safe there as anywhere.

He got his bag out of the trunk and loaded up; he thought about trying to catch one of the horses, but horses and him, they'd never really seen eye to eye. He ended up swinging the barn door shut and heading out across a field, as close to due east as he could figure. A tall, broad-shouldered figure failed to materialize beside him—and for two years, that stayed true.

* * *

It was late afternoon. He was out working on Jim Mackenzie's truck and heard the engine come up the drive but didn't think anything of it, figuring it was Jim coming to check on his progress. But something about the cadence of the footsteps coming toward him made him hesitate, old instincts raising the short hairs on his neck. Then he saw the boots—laces worn, leather dusty and scuffed down to the lining—and knew without a doubt who it was. He jabbed himself with the screwdriver and didn't really feel it.

Sam crouched down, peering up at the truck's undercarriage. "Leaking oil?" he said, a smile in his voice. He sounded different, and it hit Dean hard, that he could have forgotten what his brother's voice sounded like.

"Intake manifold," Dean grunted. He pushed himself out and found Sam's hand there, brown and scarred and familiar. He took it without thinking, let Sam pull him to his feet.

He'd lost weight, Dean thought, eyes skimming over the too-sharp angle of his jaw. The old henley he wore was open at the neck, and he wore a flat stone on a cord, the smooth surface etched with some runic design Dean felt like he should recognize. He was tan, his hair streaked lighter from the sun. Dean felt suddenly self-conscious of the oil and grime on his hands, his beard, the hints of gray in his hair.

They stared at each other, hungry, taking in the changes.

"You look good," Dean said, and realized it was true. He looked like _Sam_, even around the eyes. Not one thing that had ever happened to Dean had convinced him there were such things as miracles, but he couldn't help the way his heart missed its rhythm, his pulse coming too quick. Couldn't keep the wonder out of his voice when he said, "You do, you look—"

"You, too," Sam said, grinning like those muscles were rusty, his voice rough from the road—and Dean choked up.

"Jesus, Sammy," he said, and grabbed him close, pulled him into his arms. "Thought I'd never see you again." He meant it in every way possible, and it was only when he said it that he realized he'd never let himself consider any other possibility.

"Me, too," Sam said, and held him back; Dean closed his eyes then and breathed Sam in, unable to say any more.

* * *

"Tell me about this place," Sam said, when they'd gone back to the house and broken open Dean's stash of home brew, taken mason jars and a jug of it out on the porch and sat watching the sun go down. It should have been more awkward than it was; Dean was badly thrown by how easy it was to be with him. He couldn't remember the last time anything had been easy with them.

"Found it the same day you left," he said, and took a sip of the bitter beer. "Had to leave the car here—ran outta gas. When I came back for her, it was still deserted, so I figured I'd stay a while, clean up the place."

"Dude." Sam laughed, disbelieving. "You left the Impala?"

"Believe me, I wasn't happy about it, but what was I supposed to do?"

"Man, you musta been pissed."

Dean shot him a dark glance. "Kind of a shitty day all around, the way I remember it."

Sam sobered. "And the owners never came home?"

Dean shook his head. "Never heard hide nor hair." Under Sam's steady gaze, Dean shifted. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Just never pictured you living like this."

Dean shrugged. "There's worse things."

He'd been tired, then. Exhausted down to the bone, the kind of soul-tired that you couldn't fight. He'd never pictured himself settling down, either, much less alone on some farm in Nebraska, no TV, the closest neighbor eight miles down the road. But with Sam gone, he'd lost the fire for hunting, and all he'd wanted to do was disappear into the landscape, make things with his hands and work on cars and not think for a while.

"You gonna go see Bobby?" he asked then, for something to say. "He worries about you."

Sam gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Maybe, yeah."

"'Cause he gets wind you been around and ain't been to see him, you better cover your tracks."

"I know," Sam said. "I will. I just—I wasn't sure if you were even still talking to me."

"Yeah, well," Dean said, gruff. "Should be used to it by now, you takin' off on me."

Sam shot him a wry look. "After everything I put you through? Be honest. Tell me you weren't a little bit glad when I left."

"Oh, I wanted to beat the crap out of you a few times, don't get me wrong. Don't mean I wanted you to drop off the face of the earth."

Sam laughed, but had the grace to look a little shamefaced. "Guess I kind of needed to detox. Not just from the—from everything, you know?"

"Yeah, I hear you." Grudgingly, he admitted, "Me too, I guess."

"Anyways, I'm sorry I didn't—"

"Forget it," Dean said. "You're here, now."

He wished he could bite that last part back as soon as he said it. For all he knew, Sam wasn't planning to stay, and maybe they'd both be better off. These last two years, he'd almost convinced himself he and Sam were no good for each other. It wasn't like they'd ever been much alike, and there'd never been anybody who could cut him open the way Sam could. That went both ways. They'd been told more than once that it wasn't healthy, getting so tangled up in each other that they couldn't think, couldn't function like two separate people any more, and given what'd come of it, Dean couldn't argue the point.

He finished off his beer and poured them both some more from the jug. "What about you?" he said, keeping his eyes on what he was doing. "You been on the road this whole time?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Sam said. Dean could feel the weight of his gaze, and was grateful for the growing shadows on the porch.

When Sam didn't say anything else, he risked a wry glance Sam's direction. "Don't go into too much detail, there, Sammy. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

Sam gave a soft laugh. "Sorry, it's hard to know where to start, you know?" He seemed preoccupied with looking at Dean, like he couldn't quite get enough of it. Dean felt his face grow warm under the attention. He could have done the same thing, but some instinct for self-preservation wouldn't let him. Not yet. If he let himself get used to the idea of Sam being there, it was only gonna hurt worse when he left.

Finally Sam looked away, eyes falling to the glass cradled between his hands, and Dean breathed a little easier. Sam swallowed; Dean could see the movement of his Adam's apple, but whether he was nervous or just unused to talking so much, Dean couldn't tell. "Right after," Sam said at last, "I don't remember a whole lot. I couldn't really sleep because of the nightmares. Guess I was kind of in shock." Dean started to say something, but Sam gave a quick, sharp jerk of his head and he fell quiet. "I'm not saying that like it's some kind of excuse," he said, glancing sidelong at Dean. "It's just, those first few weeks are kind of a blank."

Dean nodded, and took a swig of beer. The heat of the alcohol helped a little.

"Then I met this woman." Before Dean could say anything, he went on, "She was from Kansas City." Dean suppressed a shiver remembering the dead walking and then the fires, the black clouds of smoke and the smell, nothing he'd ever forget. "She was a teacher, before, and she'd lost her family, but she was helping people. She had this commune near a lake in Iowa, and sometimes people from down south would hear about it and end up there. Most of them were people who had lost everything and didn't know where to go. She'd put them to work, get them helping the group—she had a gift for that, among other things. Somehow, she got through to me, got me caring about something besides the mess inside my head."

Dean's stomach sank, and he wasn't sure, after all, that he really wanted to hear this. It hurt more than he'd expected, thinking about Sam making a new life somewhere, finding peace Dean couldn't give him.

"Hey," Sam said. "You okay?"

He was also, apparently, doing a shit job of hiding it.

"Yeah. I'm good."

Sam's expression said he wasn't buying it. "Look," he said, soft. "We don't have to do this."

Dean's head came up sharp. "I said I'm good." When Sam didn't say anything, he let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just, I shoulda been there." There were a lot of places he should have been in the aftermath. A lot of people he could have helped. His brother, maybe, for one.

But Sam gave a disbelieving laugh. "What? Dean—no. You did enough. More than enough. Nobody could have asked more of you, you have to know that. That's why I—" He cut himself off.

Dean did look at him, then, a lifetime of history and screwed up chances heavy between them. Sam had left, but Dean hadn't gone after him, had he? Hadn't even tried to look for him. It wasn't the first time they'd failed each other, but maybe it was the worst. But despite how badly they'd messed things up, he couldn't help the fierce, possessive feeling that wouldn't quit, having Sam within arm's reach again, the heavy thrum of his heart, beating like it'd forgotten how until now.

"How'd you find me, Sammy?" he asked at last, though he thought he knew the answer.

As he'd half-expected, Sam's gaze faltered. "Wasn't that hard."

Dean's gut tightened. A lifetime of fear and self-doubt flickered in Sam's expression when he said it, and Dean knew him well enough to get it. "That so," was all he said. He'd thought maybe that was all over, like so many other things, but apparently not.

"It's not like it was," Sam said in a rush. "I'm not—I haven't been practicing, or anything, I swear." He'd tensed up like he still expected Dean to ream him one.

"Dude, it's okay. I believe you."

Sam blinked and let out a shaky breath. "You do?"

Dean gave a soft laugh. His throat felt rough. "Yeah. Some reason I shouldn't?" Sam shook his head, and Dean leaned back in his chair, trying to break the tension. "Just don't go waving your Jedi mind tricks around where the neighbors can see, and we'll be fine."

It seemed innocent enough, but Sam's expression came over stricken, as if Dean had said he'd sooner trust a demon than take Sam's word. Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam closed up tight, averting his face into shadow. "Nothing."

Dean, though, had had enough of Sam's evasions to last a lifetime, and he wasn't having it. He kicked Sam's foot. "Come on, don't pull that crap with me. What'd I say?"

Sam glanced at him, not long enough for Dean to get a good look at him. "We," he said. His voice came out choked, like he couldn't get it to work right. "You said we."

"And?"

Sam didn't answer. He leaned forward, head bowed. After a while Dean realized he was crying silently, biting his lips with the effort to stay quiet.

"Aw, Sammy, Christ—" He reached out without thinking and gripped the back of Sam's neck, thumb fitted along the hollow between muscle and bone. The sense memory rocked him before he knew what hit him. He'd done this a hundred times when Sam was little. Wanted to, later on, but somewhere along the line he'd broken himself of the habit for reasons he'd never looked at too closely.

It seemed to hit Sam hard, too; Dean could feel the tremor that ran through him. After a moment, Sam straightened up and cleared his throat hard.

"Sorry," he said, wiping his face with his hands. "Sorry, I told myself I wasn't going to do that."

The hell with it. Dean squeezed Sam's neck and knocked his knee against Sam's, not letting go. "Yeah, well, I missed you, too, bitch."

Sam gasped a laugh, watery and unsteady. "Jerk." He stopped, like he couldn't say any more, and Dean knew with a fierce and sudden certainty that he wasn't letting Sam leave him again. His hand tightened of its own volition. Not in this lifetime.

Realizing it was a relief so profound he couldn't deal with it yet, but he let his eyes roam over Sam the way he'd wanted to since he'd first seen him, the familiar breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his neck and the sharp outline of his profile, the pale, tense clutch of his hands slung between his legs. Dean couldn't seem to stop himself from rubbing his thumb against the tense muscle at Sam's neck; their knees still pressed together and Dean knew he should do something about that, get some distance, but it was like Sam's field of gravity had hold of him and somewhere in the last two years he'd forgotten how to fight it. From the way Sam trembled under his hand, maybe Dean wasn't the only one.

He was still telling himself it was his imagination, that he was too emotional tonight to think straight, when Sam looked back at him, tear-streaked and too close, an expression of such naked longing on his face that Dean had to fight a wave of vertigo.

Before he knew he meant to do it, he pulled his hand back, lurched to his feet and moved two steps away to lean on the porch railing. It didn't really help. Even without looking at Sam his hands were shaking, and he was thinking about how there'd only ever been one person he could imagine spending the rest of his life with and what that meant. What it had always meant, whether they acknowledged it or not.

He closed his eyes, trying to get it together. If he didn't, he was going to do something monumentally stupid.

When he could, he turned around, face carefully schooled. "Listen, it's late—" he said.

He didn't get any further. Because it was Sam, and really, of the two of them, it was always Sam who picked the worst times not to be afraid. "Dean," Sam said. The way he said it, breath locked up in his chest, was the only warning Dean got before Sam looked up at him with his heart in his eyes, looked right at him like this was something they could do, like Dean owed him that much. Every minute of every day together for five years, for most of their lives, and when was the last time they'd looked at each other without all the layers of history and betrayal and unspoken need locked away behind bullshit lies and self-preservation?

"Sam, don't—" Dean said, the words out before he could stop them, a gut-deep terror wrenching them out of him. But he didn't mean it. God help him, he didn't, and it was too late anyway, because the words were an admission in themselves and he couldn't take that back.

The look on Sam's face said he knew it as well as Dean did. It was hope, spilling out and making him look younger, his eyes brighter. "I'm not," he said, but he was. He was on his feet and stepping into Dean's space and there was no denying the answering relief that unwound in Dean's chest. Sam put his hand there like he could feel it, then stopped himself with a visible effort, like he was trying to hold himself still against imperative geological forces. "I'm not, I just—Dean, I tried to stay away, but then something changed. I could feel you. It was like this invisible force pulling me here, and I keep thinking that maybe—"

Dean's heart was pounding, his mouth dry, and he knew he should stop Sam before he said anything else, but what he said was, "Maybe what?"

Sam took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Maybe it's not too late, maybe we could still give it a shot. You and me." He looked into Dean's eyes when he said it, close enough that Dean could see the flush rise up his neck. "I know," he said hurriedly, hand clutching into a fist in Dean's shirt. "I know it's crazy, it's never not gonna be crazy, but I've thought about this a long time, and I know it's not just me. It can't be."

Dean stared at him. At the hectic color in his face, the intent light in his eyes, half hopeful, half stubborn because Sam never was any good at taking no for an answer, never did have the sense to keep his mouth shut when he wanted something. His forehead knotted up and he looked like he was ready for Dean to punch his lights out but wasn't about to let that stop him. "Dean, please. Tell me it's not."

You fucking idiot, Dean thought, feeling dazed down to his boots. You royal, complete moron. He couldn't have said which one of them he meant.

He fumbled to set the mason jar down and missed the railing; it rolled into the bushes, forgotten. Dean reached up, knotted his fingers in Sam's hair and hauled him in close before he could stop himself. Sam shuddered and let out a breath, tucked his head down like it was all he'd wanted to do since he got there, let Dean draw his face down into the hollow of Dean's neck with a sound like it was what he'd been waiting for his whole life.

"I've been right here the whole damn time," Dean said, tight and angry and so relieved he wanted to hit Sam almost as much as he wanted to hold onto him. "What the hell'd you think? Huh?"

Staying angry would have helped, but Sam's body found a home against his, a long, hard line of muscle and heat that made Dean's pulse rocket, his heart ache, and Sam's arms around him anchored him like nothing else had for as long as he could remember. Sam gave a soft, unsteady laugh against his throat. "You have no idea," he said, and kissed him there, mouth hot as a spark. "No fucking idea, I swear." His hands slid under Dean's shirt and Dean's body reacted with an uncontrollable rush of blood and heat. Jesus.

"Yeah?" Dean said, the dazed, stupid feeling spreading all through him. He pulled back, took Sam's face in his hands and drank him in; he was pretty sure he did have some idea, but having Sam up against him like this made it hard to string thoughts together, let alone argue.

Sam grinned, a lopsided expression. He studied Dean's face, gaze settling soft and hot on Dean's mouth for a second before making it back to Dean's eyes. "Yeah," he said, and took a deep, unsteady breath, licked his lips. "Yeah, Dean."

Dean's pulse jittered hard, unsteady counterpoint to the _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart, and he had a second, only a second to be sure they were both out of their freaking minds before Sam's mouth touched his, before Sam made that pained little sound again and kissed him, warm brush of lips and soft, hot tongue, and Dean couldn't think anything at all past the violent assent that rushed through him, _yes_, and _God_, and

_fucking finally_.

* * *

Much later, Dean sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Sam. Both of them were naked, marked up with each other's hunger and desperation, the bed a mess under the pale rectangle of moonlight that came in from the window. Dean felt shaky with the aftermath of his own need, but what scared him was that he still felt the ache of it barely assuaged, a heavy heat running deep in his blood. He was pretty sure he was never not going to feel it.

"You and me," he said, unable to leave it unspoken. "That's what you want?"

Sam touched him between the shoulder blades, knelt up behind him and kissed the back of his neck. "Till the wheels fall off—or until you get sick of me. Any more dumb questions?"

"Just needed to hear you say it," Dean said, gruff.

Sam didn't say anything. But his arms closed around Dean from behind, one hand spreading steady over Dean's heart.

**Author's Note:**

> For Destina on her birthday. I feel like this should come with a world of *facepalm* attached. One day, I'll write something that doesn't make me feel that way—but honestly, probably not in this fandom.


End file.
